


Both anger and alcohol lead to similar regrets

by FrogSpawn



Series: Septiplier/Danti One-Shots [19]
Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Anal Sex, Angst, Casual Sex, Cheating, Choking, Crying During Sex, Dubious Consent, Fights, Films, Grinding, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Intern!Sean, Manipulation, Multi, Oral Sex, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Rough Oral Sex, Sad Ending, Self-Hatred, Sexual Content, Short, Toxic Relationship, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unsafe Sex, abusive, director!mark, toxic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 10:48:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27849686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrogSpawn/pseuds/FrogSpawn
Summary: It had started as a mistake.It had never meant to be anything manipulative.It had never meant to be left unresolved.It was a dirty secret that both of them would take to their graves.
Relationships: Mark Fischbach/Background Character (background), Mark Fischbach/Sean McLoughlin
Series: Septiplier/Danti One-Shots [19]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1426423
Comments: 1
Kudos: 9





	Both anger and alcohol lead to similar regrets

**Author's Note:**

> This is me trying to get back into writing. Please ignore how shitty this is. Or don't, I guess. At least enjoy it.

It had started as a mistake. An error, a lapse in judgement that swelled and spread like an untreated infection.

Rain had been pummelling the ground all day, turning previously firm dirt into sloppy lakes of filthy mush. Thunderous droplets pounded on the balcony of his hotel room, the brutal, violent crashes invading the room even with the door closed and curtains drawn. It hadn't let up all day, and save for a rush to retrieve and save all of the equipment the crew had left outside the day prior, nothing had been. Mark was left to pace his hotel room and pull his hair out, chunk by chunk until a bloody scalp trickled to his forehead and he was forced to clean himself up.

After is when he found himself at the bar, sipping a mocktail, lamenting the fact he was sober. Alcohol had been a close friend who he had been sorely mourning since he left rehab. Still, he was drunk, loopy from anxiety and rage and general frustration that he had no problem acting like a shambolic drunkard. He found himself at the bar, chatting up some person from the crew. It was easy and light, chuckles and occasional responses, but ultimately the stranger was the one talking, some anything to everything. He was drinking, Mark noted, especially when the man gave him a flushed look overtop his pint of cider.

Brown hair wasn't too far off of Mark's own tan skin tone from working outside in scorching heats, so when it was held in his fist there wasn't a great contrast. However the man's body was pale as anything, porcelain that allowed for satisfying visibility of a red colouring to his torso and face, and the dark, purple flowers blooming on his neck and collar bone, trailing down to his hips, where blood had began to bubble from the centre of the contusion like a physiological spring. Chokes and gags were muffled by an obstruction roughly beating his throat, saliva dripping down pale chin to the pillow. His moans were also satisfying in their range of pitch and volume, especially when Mark thrust into just the right spot that made the dear below him sing his praises in garbled and incoherent whimpers, tears streaming from his eyes as the tan hand enclosed his neck. Mark's gut bubbled with disgust as he finished inside the weeping man.

It had never meant to be anything manipulative. Mark was pissed and made a mistake. That was the end of it.

Cerulean found his over the table where he was discussing some notes he had for the lead actor. They were cold, pain pulsating in those now choppy waters of eyes, stormy with convoluted and draining emotions. Mark noted the tray of cups in his hands, and the harried look and deamour he held himself with when he wasn't watching Mark with something akin to hatred. He must be an intern. An unknown intern. His theory was later confirmed when he took a swig of his coffee and found an overwhelming taste of salt and vinegar in place of the bitter caffeine.

Mark cursed filming his debut of directing in the film industry in the tropics. Drumming from the balcony had woken him up, only to increase as the day grew older. He wandered down the halls, aiming to meet and speak to an actor about a part of the script she had objected to when he instead found the unnamed intern by her door. They stared at each other before he knocked and waited. It didn't seem that she was in, however they still waited outside of the door in silence in hopes of something happening.

"Do you know my name?" the intern asked at last. Trembling hands barely held onto the mug of coffee in his hand, much less prevent it from sloshing around and spilling onto the beige carpet. When Mark didn't respond, he turned to leave, only to be stopped by a firm grip on his wrist. Words, desperate and rushed, left Mark's mouth in a slurred babble as he pleaded that it was a mistake, that it was his mistake, and that he shouldn't feel guilty over it. The intern chuckled dryly and kept his eyes on the stain on the carpet.

"It takes two. You should know. You wrote that in your script. It made me feel dirty, and used, and…" he trailed off before shaking his head and attempting to tug his arm away from Mark. "Save your apologies and- and weak excuses for your girlfriend."

Mark wasn't sure what was said after, only that the heated exchange was moved to Mark's hotel room after someone walked in on them. The intern was shouting something about how Mark was a selfish fucker, when Mark silenced him with a kiss. He powered to get a response even as the other struggled to push Mark off of him. Emotions and adrenaline ran high as they laid on the floor, naked and sweaty breathing each other's air and stealing each other's gasps and moan and their hips worked to grind together.

It was later, when the two lay in bed, Mark on his back with his employee's head on his chest, that he looked up at him with dark blue eyes that shone like a jewel and whispered, "It's Sean."

They stayed like that, whispering to each other in hushed tones, secrets that were hidden from the world by the darkening sky, only moving occasionally when they rolled over to allow room for Sean to bounce effectively on Mark's lap. It was all too soon that the sun came, there were so many things left unsaid, so many things left undone, however the sky was already blazing, lit up like a shitty flashlight on pale skin surrounded by the darkness of the clutter and shadows of the storage cupboard.

Mark never meant to lie to Sean. He never meant to give him false hope of anything. In fact, he steadily avoided anything that could possibly lead to that. So then how it ended up that way he had no way, yet here he was, holding Sean close in bed, covered in sweat, whispering promises he couldn't- wouldn't keep. Promises of time, promises of attention. He even told Sean that he could help him break into the film industry as an audio engineer.

That had been a lie. Mark knew exactly why he began to say those things. Sean had begun to slip away, blue eyes looking away from him, and he knew that his body would follow. He didn't want to lose Sean. When Mark realised this he bedded another employee. Sean found out by walking into Mark's hotel room. They screamed at each other that night, and the woman had slipped out between them. Whilst they did end up together by the end of the night, Sean had tried to leave several times, only held back by Mark's pleading and promises and grip. He wasn't sure if Mark caught him crying in the bathroom whilst he was cleaning up afterwards, or how he didn't speak as the inky black bled into the gentle clear blue of the morning.

It hadn't meant to be left unresolved and open, untreated and aching, agony pulsing through his body as he stared at Sean's taxi retreating into the distance.

The shoot had finished, the film was partially rendered, the film polished and wrapped up neatly with a tag that read 'box office hit'. And then Sean had left, along with all of the other crew. Their job had finished, and were on their way back to their homes, to their next projects, or to recuperate from the gruelling shoot. So of course, everyone would go home. It was what happened.

Sean didn't even look once as he entered the taxi with several other members of the crew and took off down the road back to the airport. Mark waited, delayed his taxi, in case he would come back. Maybe he had forgotten something, or he just wanted closure over what had happened. Sean never did. And Mark took off into the air, back to LA, feeling sick to his stomach and swimming up to his elbows in self-hatred and disgust.

This would be a secret that both of them would take to their respective graves.


End file.
